A Question of Aboslute Obedience
by Twist
Summary: A story that I have re-posted with a kinder, gentler author's note. Still contains juvenile humor and sweatervests, never fear. Not as creepy as the title sounds. Rated T because I felt like it.


Author's Note: The latest in my collect of pop-culture reference clusterfucks. Based heavily on the Tropic Thunder viral video, available for your viewing pleasure on YouTube. Characterization is optional. Beta was non-existent. Editing . . . wait, what? What is this editing you speak of? LOL ALL ABOARD THE FAILBOAT.

"_I love this job more than I love taffy, and I'm a man who loves his taffy. Mmmmm."_

_- Mayor Adam 'We' West_

--

It was morning, or close to it. Outside, weak sunlight radiated from the Disc's tiny circling star, crawling over the landscape and only occasionally getting stuck on the odd magical building, high mountain, or inconveniently-placed pebble. In Ankh-Morpork, the first gray rays were poking their way through the streets and windows. Mist rose off the Ankh, green and eerie in the morning light. In Hide Park, cool dew had gathered on the autumn-browned and pollution-browned leaves alike.

On Scoone Avenue, a coach was rolling down the cobbles, the clatter of the horses' hooves echoing off the brick-faced houses. The navy-blue coach rolled to a stop in front of one of the houses, a large, dark-stoned box with a hint of gothic taste about it. A man in a brown suit stepped from the coach and picked his way down the overgrown and neglected front walkway. He made his way up the front stairs, deftly circumventing a broken board, which had been cleverly disguised by a threadbare mat that might, at one point, have read 'Welcomme.' He reached for a bell pull and, finding none, shook his head and knocked.

-

_Knock._

The hollow sound rang through the dark room. There was movement, and illuminated by the meager light bullying its way past the curtains, three distinctively canine profiles rose up from what might have been a bed, ears pricked.

_Knock_.

_Woof._

"Oh, bugger it all." Springs creaked, fabric swished against fabric. An outline of someone sat up. "What?"

"Someone here for you, sir."

_Woof._

"Enough, Lebowski." Then, louder, "What time is it?"

"Seven o'clock, sir."

"Tell them to go away." The outline disappeared with a _whump_ of pillows and a reproachful doggy whine.

"It's Mr. Drumknott, sir."

The outline reappeared. "Drumknott?"

"Yes, sir. He extends his apologies for coming by earlier than ten thirty, but I'm told it couldn't wait."

A pause. A sigh. And then, "Fine. Give me twenty minutes."

"As expected, sir."

The sound of sensible shoes moving away from the door. The humanoid silhouette sagged for a second. A canid silhouette stood the rest of the way and jumped down, tail wagging. The humanoid silhouette seemed to turn, in the dim light, and stood for the briefest of moments before disappearing with a thud and a somewhat exasperated cry of "Gods_dammit_, Oliver, there's no food under the damn _bed_!"

Down the hall from the darkened room and around the corner to the left, just past the tradesman's entrance, two people were in the kitchen. One was making toast; the other – the man in the brown suit – was sitting at the large wooden table in the middle of the space, folio on his lap.

"He won't want toast, you know," the man said matter-of-factly.

"So you say," the toast-making individual replied. She was a rather pretty young woman, although she was somewhat off-putting because she was, as far as anyone knew, at least six and a half feet tall. Perhaps a bit less, but what difference did it make? Her shoes, however sensible they may have been, did not help – with the extra inch and a half of heel, she would be able to – _ahaha_ – _dwarf_ Captain Carrot, the veritable mountain of a man employed by the City Watch. She flipped the toast, one hand on her hip. "So what brings you here this morning?" she asked, laying the spatula aside, and turning around, busying herself by pulling her brown hair back into a bun. "What, Mr. Drumknott, could not wait?"

The other man shrugged. "Oh, you know, city business." He drummed his fingers on the folio and looked coolly at the frying pan. "I'm telling you, he won't want toast. He doesn't eat."

"Maybe not when you worked for him," the young woman replied haughtily. "People do change."

"He doesn't."

"You don't think so?"

Mr. Drumknott scowled. "He probably just does it to make you happy."

She laughed, though there was no amusement to it. "You're adorable, let me assure you. What sort of city business?"

"It's none of your business," Mr. Drumknott sniffed.

"Oh, so it's confidential then?" She turned around and opened one of the cabinets. A spice rack full of cigarette packs sat there. She pulled a fresh one out, set it on the counter.

"It hardly matters, I'm not going to tell you anyway."

"He'll just tell me later, you know that? Probably in the form of a long, metaphor-riddled rant interspersed with swearing at the dogs and smoking." She turned around, looking smug. "It's how things work."

"Is not."

"Is too."

From the hall came the sound of a door slamming open, shortly followed by the scrabbling of three sets of claws on polished hardwood. The young woman smiled and pulled the toast pan out of the fire, setting it on the table and then seating herself daintily on the wood surface. "Incoming."

"What?"

The claw-on-wood scrabbling ceased, although it was hardly noticeable, since the frantic whining and panting of three breakfast-focused dogs was becoming louder by the millisecond. Drumknott watched, eyes wide, as the three dogs, known as Lebowski, Oliver and little Beastly, gained purchase briefly on the old rug at the base of the stairs, turned, and hit the kitchen hardwood. Oliver, being at the front of the pack, realized first that today, like every day, he was going too fast and needed to stop if he wanted to be at the bowls first. He slammed on the brakes, but the polished floor offered little resistance for him to stop with. Behind him, the gigantic mastiff cross Lebowski saw Oliver attempting a stop, and sat down on his haunches, entering a skid. At the back, Beastly simply crashed face-first into Lebowski's back, propelling the big dog forward and into the slowly decelerating Oliver. And then, like a horrible ice-skating routine, the three dogs slid, full-force, into Drumknott's chair.

Obviously, there was a crash.

"I tell you, it never gets old."

"Good morning, sir." The toast-maker hopped down off the table, ignoring Drumknott's struggle to get himself out from under the dogs.

"Debatable," her employer replied, snatching a piece of toast out of the pan and taking a bite. "Just hit them, Drumknott, there's a good lad."

"Good morning, your Lordship," Drumknott said, finally clambering to his feet. He paused for the briefest of seconds when he saw the man with the toast in hand. "Er, sorry for the hour."

"Well apparently it can't be helped. What's going on?" Drumknott glanced to the young woman, who was smirking with self-satisfaction. It was quick, but it wasn't missed. "Don't worry about Gwen, Drumknott, she knows everything worth knowing anyway."

"Of course, sir," Drumknott said tightly. "There's a city council meeting at the Palace this morning, and Lord von Lipwig requests that you be there. I have a note."

"Oh, a note, well in _that_ case," the older man said, rolling his eyes. He held out a hand. "Let's see it then." Paper tore. "'Greetings and salutations Lord Vetinari –' who _writes_ this crap?"

"Clerk Brian, sir."

"He's allowed to write things now?"

"Yes sir. But only to people who know that he wrote them."

"Ah." Lord Vetinari scanned the rest of the note. "So von Lipwig wants me at the meeting this morning, that's it?" He laid the note aside, and picked the slice of toast back up off the counter. "Drumknott I haven't been to one of those meetings in . . . what, five years?"

"Just so, sir," Drumknott replied smoothly. "The Patrician would really prefer that you be there this morning."

Vetinari looked at the toast, clearly thinking about something else. "Why? Everything's fine with the city, last I checked."

"Sir, I can explain in the coach," Drumknott said, bowing slightly.

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "You've gotten more diplomatic about telling people to hurry up."

Drumknott smiled thinly. "Well if I may say, sir, his Lordship doesn't seem to terrify the same amount of punctuality into people as you did. I've had more practice."

"Huh." Vetinari smirked, gave the remains of the toast slice a cool look, and then threw it to the dogs, which happily bounced all over one another in their attempts to get the smallest of bites. "Right, well, off we go then." He snatched the packet of cigarettes off the counter and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He paused. "Gwen, are you sure the sweater-vest thing isn't gay?"

The young woman smiled. "Sir, I doubt Lady Sybil would purchase something that was the height of gay fashion."

Vetinari looked down at the black lovechild of a sweater and a vest. "I think it's gay. Feed the dogs, will you?"

"Of course, sir." Gwen smiled as the two men left, dogs bounding happily along behind them. The front door clicked shut, and the dogs trotted back into the kitchen, tails wagging and tongues lolling. She rubbed Oliver behind the ears. "Don't tell him, but it looks really gay," she giggled.

-

The coach rolled slowly along through the early-morning traffic on Broad Way. Inside, Lord Vetinari was flipping through a file Drumknott had handed him. He didn't look particularly pleased.

"'Services rendered by party, namely Patrician, unsatisfactory . . . City not suffering by morale low . . . Smarmy bastard . . . blah blah. Precedence for reinstatement of previous ruler exits –' _What_?" He waved the paper at Drumknott. "Reinstatement? They can't be serious."

"Apparently, sir, they are. Very much so, actually."

"This is ridiculous! I haven't had enough coffee to deal with this this early," Vetinari grumbled, slouching back into the leather seat and skimming through a few more lines of text. "Besides, I'm seventy-two, I could go tomorrow for all we know, have they considered that?"

Drumknott cleared his throat. "I believe, sir, that at the moment popular though dictates that you are a vampire and therefore immortal."

The former Patrician sighed. "So I'm going to have to debunk that one again, am I?"

"Well no, you don't have to. Honestly, sir, I'm not sure it would matter." Drumknott shrugged. "People don't like Mr. von Lipwig very much. Mainly, from the reports that I have drawn up, because he isn't you."

Vetinari had closed the folder and laid it aside. His eyes were closed. "The bugger all about people," he said tiredly, "is that they're so damn _predictable_. And consistent." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "And therefore, people like consistency. Change scares them. I'm not the right Patrician for this city anymore Drumknott, you know that. Politics these days is about flash and style and a feel-good message. Doing things the way they ought to be done, with proper laws and everyone's held equal and all that rubbish."

"Yes, sir. Democratic elections are going over quite well on the small scale thus far."

"I know. That's the way the world's going, Drumknott. People are getting more educated on their own, they don't need others to think _for_ them, they need them to persuade them to think on their own. Whereas me, I'm good at thinking for people. And if they want to think on their own, I tell them what to think about or I ignore them." He shrugged. "It was a good system for the time. It worked. Now it's history, along with anarchy and bloody feudalism. It would never work today."

Drumknott nodded sympathetically. "I know, sir. I tried to explain it in a report to the city council."

"Of course you did."

There was a pause with just a little bit of iciness at the edges. "Yes, I did." Drumknott cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. "Anyway, the problem is the city council likes the old system. They want it back. Lord von Lipwig's hands are somewhat tied right now – they're so determined not to like him they won't even look at any of his proposals."

"And so we get wastes of time," Vetinari smirked, waving the folder around vaguely. "The world is changing, Drumknott. Power is shifting; the rich don't have all the cards anymore, and they don't like it." He gave his former clerk a sidelong look. "Personally I say let the people have their power, let all the bad decisions be their own. Then they won't have anyone to whine to."

"They'll find someone."

"Obviously." He looked out the window as the coach rolled into the shadow of the Palace. "So what's the plan of action here? I shouldn't think they'll take kindly to me walking in, telling them to listen to the bloody Patrician and walking out." He pulled his cigarette pack out.

"Probably not," Drumknott replied, with a hint of a smile, taking the file back so Vetinari could light his cigarette. "Perhaps if you made it clear to them that von Lipwig is a fine ruler . . .?"

Vetinari blew a smoke ring. "Nah, they wouldn't listen to that. Most of them still hate me anyway." He took a drag and paused for thought. "Of course, if I was blatantly uninterested in doing anything for any of them . . ."

"That might work."

Vetinari shrugged as the coach finally rattled to a halt. He swung the door open. "Or we could do it the old-fashioned way."

"Sir?"

Vetinari smiled thinly as he stepped out of the coach. "Improvise."

--

Fifteen minutes later, in the Rats' Chamber, things were not going well. Everyone had seated themselves and the meeting had started, sort of. While the Patrician was seated in his usual spot at the head of the long axe-adorned table, the person who had opened the meeting and apparently taken control of it was Lord Downey.

"You see, von Lipwig, it's not that we don't like you per se," he was saying, "but you're not what we're looking for in a Patrician. You were a jolly good postmaster, oh yes," he went on, forcing a laugh. "And who can forget what you did for the bank? And everything was going so smoothly while you ran the tax agency! But as Patrician, we feel you haven't quite lived up to your reputation for being the man to follow –"

"If you'll pardon me saying so, Lord Downey, I've only been doing the same thing I did in all of my previous posts," Moist said tightly. "My management style has not changed."

Downey sniffed. "Be that as it may, perhaps your . . . unique _style_ is not quite suited to large-scale situations."

"I would say three government organizations is large scale," Ridcully cut in. He'd always been on von Lipwig's side on the basis that the young man was personable enough and he was always on the opposite side as Lord Downey, which in and of itself was reason enough.

"Yes well perhaps not large _enough_, then," Downey all but snarled. "In any case, it is for that reason that we are honored today by the presence of . . . " He blinked as he looked to his left. "Havelock, are you listening?"

"Absolutely," Vetinari said distantly from behind a newspaper. The headline read 'Vetinari Deemed Most Influential Politician of Centuree'.

Downey sighed. "Havelock I understand you're excited about that –"

"You see that? That's the stuff, right there," he smirked, folding the paper up and tossing it onto the table. Across from him, Commander Vimes scowled. "Don't pretend you're not impressed, Vimes."

"Yes, very good," Downey said shortly, before the Commander could open his mouth. "And in light of that I'm _very_ pleased to offer you your old job back, Havelock. Several members of the council are in agreement on this." Nods rippled around the table, mostly among the older members of the council.

Vetinari raised his eyebrows. "You want me to take the job back? Downey, I'm touched. But no, thanks."

There were several nervous chuckles. "Surely you can't be serious." Downey shifted ever-so-slightly in his seat. He was uncomfortable, Vetinari knew. The shifting had been his tell since he was eleven years old. "Think of what you've done for the city, what you could still do!"

"I am serious," Vetinari said firmly. "And don't call me Shirley."(1)

Downey paused, unsure of how to handle that. Vimes smirked and Ms von Lipwig nee Dearheart, who was standing with Drumknott, shared a twitch of a grin with the head clerk. "That's pretty good," she muttered.

"He writes all his own material," Drumknott replied.

Vetinari pushed his chair back and stood up and started pacing slowly around the table, one hand behind his back, the other gesturing vaguely as he spoke, lit cigarette trailing smoke. "Gentlemen and ladies, I think what we have here is a failure to see the total picture. I understand your reasons for wanted me back and I'm touched, really, deeply, almost creepily touched," he said, putting his cigarette-free hand over his heart. "Hello Rosie, didn't see you there, don't you look lovely in that color.

'Council members, what we cannot ignore here is that while I was, apparently, well taken in the post of Patrician, Mr. von Lipwig has done a great amount for the city since taking over. Peacefully, I may add." He stopped by the large windows that looked out over the main drag. "The economy is on a tremendous upswing, the unemployment rate is lower than it's been in years, murders and suicides are down, we have a very beneficial partnership with most of the major countries – yes, even Klatch, Lord Rust – and may I also add that the city itself is cleaner than it has ever been in living memory. Last month surveyors found a _fish_ in the Ankh, ladies and gentlemen: a living, breathing _fish_. Granted it had three heads and a boot growing out of its abdomen, and upon being re-introduced to the river after observation it burst into flames, but progress is made! Maybe we'll get a _carp_ in a year, who knows?" He leaned an elbow on the back of the Patrician's chair. Moist looked rather like he wanted to run away, but he hid it nicely. "I'd think at least someone in this room would find that extensive list of achievements rather impressive."

There was a highly awkward pause as Vetinari stared down several council members. Most of them shifted uncomfortably. Lord Devon, current leader of the Livery Guild, raised a tentative hand. "I found it impressive," he said meekly.

"Capital!" Vetinari said. "Very well then, that's settled." He was about to make a break for the door when someone in a very Downey-esque direction muttered something. "What was that Downey?" he asked mildly, not looking at the man.

Downey's face fell. "Er, well, er. You see, your Lordship, we do recognize that Mr. von Lipwig has a long resume of very . . . nice accomplishments. But you see, we can't help but think that having someone with a bit more, oh I don't know, _experience _in the post and in politics would have a different, better approach."

Moist put his head in his hands. Vetinari rolled his eyes. "Lord Downey, I cannot honestly guarantee you that were I in the position of power right now I would not be doing the exact same things. Why try to fix something that's not broken?"

"It wouldn't be a fix, of course not," the Master of Assassins said hurriedly. "No, it would be more of an . . . upgrade, as far as we're concerned."

Vetinari resisted the urge to groan. Retired or not, there were things one did not do in front of the city council. "Fine. By show of hands, who would like to replace Lord von Lipwig with me, regardless of accomplishments or the fact that I have been retired for seven years and very well may keel over dead at any moment? From natural causes as well as others, obviously." Around the table, about five hands went up. Depressingly, they were among the most influential hands around the table. Clearly, the matter had not been put to bed. Vetinari paused on one hand. "Commander?"

"I distrusted you marginally less. Plus there were less social functions."

"You would vote based on that," Rosie remarked dryly.

"You trusted him more than me?" Moist blurted out. "_Seriously?_"

"Well at least we knew he wasn't camp," Vimes grumbled. "With all due respect, no man who wears that much glitter isn't camp."

"That's my husband you're talking about!"

"Of course," Vimes amended, lighting a cigar, "Vetinari is wearing a sweater-vest today."

"I was going to say something about that," Rosie said. "Tell me you didn't buy that for yourself, please."

"Sybil bought it for me," Vetinari snapped. "I hardly see how it matters. Plus I had it on good authority that it wasn't too gay."

"He wouldn't have bought it anyway, it wasn't on sale for thirty-nine for a dollar at the _Wal de Mart_," Miss Dearheart snickered quietly to Drumknott.

Drumknott gave her a sidelong, slightly worried glance. "How did you know about his shopping habits?"

Vetinari raised his hands. "Fine. All right. My and Mr. von Lipwig's sexuality aside, the whole matter at hand here is not resolved, apparently." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gentlemen, I personally believe Mr. von Lipwig is doing perhaps a better job than I could do given the political climate at the moment." He shrugged. "Unfortunately no one can handle every type of situation forever." He looked to Downey. "Listen, what will make you believe Lipwig is fine, Faustus? I haven't had enough to drink to argue this all day."

Downey thought for a moment. "Well, speaking for myself and three other members of this council, Vimes not included, perhaps a small demonstration that Lipwig would do what you told him to, regardless of the circumstances."

"So basically Vetinari's still Patrician, just informally?" Moist cut in. "I mean, basically that's what's going on, right? He can still do whatever he wants to the city, but in the mean times I'm taking care of business?"

Downey nodded. "More or less, I suppose that would suffice."

Moist looked to Vetinari, who took simply leaned over ground out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Downey," the former Patrician muttered. "You want a demonstration?"

"Yes."

Vetinari looked to the Patrician. "Have someone run down and re-do the taxes for the past twenty years for the Assassins' Guild – they could do with an audit."

"Absolutely sir," Lipwig smirked.

"No! Not that sort of demonstration," Downey said hurriedly. "What is that, after all, than proving he will do as you wish on matters you agree on? No, he must allow something he would otherwise be opposed to."

"I don't like the direction this is going," Moist muttered.

"What are the terms?" asked Vetinari.

Downey looked to the other four members dissenting members of the council. Vimes beckoned Vetinari over. The two had a quiet conversation, both sparing a look in the Patrician's direction. "You think that would work?" Vetinari asked. Vimes nodded. " . . . All right. Lipwig, go stand in front of the window; face the table." The whole council watched as the Patrician nervously moved over toward the window.

"You're not going to push me out, are you?" He laughed a little, but there was still a hint of nervousness.

"Of course not," said Vetinari, waving a hand dismissively. "Now just stand there, no matter what happens. And, er, sing a little song."

"What about?"

"Ankh-Morpork, avocados, I don't care, make something up."

"I like avocados," Lord Devon added.

"Er. Right." Moist stood there for a moment. "Um. _Avocados are green and lumpy, their skin is tough and really bumpy_ –"

"That's it, now do a little dance," Downey snickered.

"_They taste good on tacos, with some let-tuce, and don't forget the to-ma-toes!_" Midway through the last line, Vetinari had sort of sauntered over, humming tunelessly. And then he punctuated the end of the song by rather gracefully kicking the Patrician directly in the groin. Moist crumbled.

It would have been bad if everyone had laughed. What made it worse was that no one did, except for Vetinari, for whom laughter consisted of going 'ha' once and smiling without looking like he was in actual physical pain. Moist looked to Downey. The man was shaking his head slowly. "Clever idea, Commander, but somehow . . . I don't know. Not good enough."

"Seriously? I'm in real pain down here," Moist gasped. "How is that not enough for you?"

"I have to agree," Spike contributed. "I mean, yes, it demonstrated that you would do what he told, but you didn't know it was _coming_."

"I thought you wanted kids!" Moist moaned, getting gingerly to his feet.

"Try punching him this time," Selachii suggested.

"You want me to get hit again?!" Moist almost cried. "This is getting ridiculous!"

Clerk Brian jumped out of a secret passage and shook Downey by the love handles. "And Lord Downey's getting larger!" he crowed, before leaping back from whence he came. (2)

"Alright, well, how about hearing that little song again, eh?" Vetinari said gently. "It was a nice song."

Nervously, Moist started to dance around and sing again. He hadn't got three words in when Vetinari delivered an impressively fast one-two punch to the Patrician's crotch. Again, he crumpled.

"Not good enough," Downey yawned. Vetinari scowled.

"Come on, man, he's not going to be able to go to the bathroom for at least six hours." His eyes narrowed. "If this is between you and me, look alive, Downey."

"Now gentlemen," Mrs. Palm cut in. "Havelock, why don't you give Mr. von Lipwig's groin a rest? Perhaps you could think of another thing to maim him with, since we seem to be going this route."

"Fine," Moist gasped, climbing back to his feet. "Just give me a minute to get myself situated here –" _WHACK_. The Patrician crumbled once more as a rolled-up sheaf of files caught him under the chin. While he was flat on his back, recovering, Vetinari sat on his chest and started beating his crotch with the newspaper.

"Is this doing it for you?" the former Patrician asked Downey.

"It's doing something for me," Rosie remarked dryly.

"Looks like I picked the wrong week to stop smoking cigars," muttered Vimes, rolling his eyes and lighting up. "Ye gods, that looks gay."

"Do you always smoke after sex?" Vetinari asked innocently.

"What?"

"What?" Vetinari stood up and stepped off the Patrician, not that Moist was in any hurry to get to his feet. "So how does that work for you?"

"Short of killing him, I think it will do fine," snickered Downey. "Do you often straddle other men, Havelock?"

"Do you often have sex with a heated-up bagel in your office when your wife locks you out of the house, Downey?"

"I beg your pardon!"

"What?"

"So tender," Moist whimpered, rolling around, hands clenched between his legs. "Oh so tender." Adora knelt beside him.

"There there, dear. All in the name of the city."

"I hate this bloody city," moaned Moist.

"Welcome to the club! You have to be crazy to like it," said Vetinari, grabbing his coat and heading for the door. "So since that's all settled I'll be heading home. Don't ask me to come back to one of these damn things unless there's free food involved' I'm retired, I don't do work anymore. Have a nice meeting." As he was halfway out the door he leaned back into the room. "Oh, and if any of you ever speak of what happened today again, I will make what I just did to his Lordship look like a pleasant afternoon in the park." He flashed a smile. The men in the room shared a collective gulp.

"You can sit on me any day of the week," said Rosie slyly.

"I'll be by later, my dear," replied. "Have a pleasant meeting." The door clicked shut.

"Oh gods, it's burning. So, so tender."

--

(1) I have been writing Discworld fanfiction for near seven years and have yet to make an Airplane! reference. I think you all should be very proud of me.

(2) I DO WHAT I WANT.

--

Next time: DAVID BLAINE! MAGIC! CHEEZE-ITS! AND OH, SO MUCH MORE!

Peace.


End file.
